Pivotal Pilot Dexter
by The Seventh L
Summary: WIP. A series of Labor attacks in Miami become suspicious enough to attract the attention of Section 2's own mech analyst and resident secret serial killer Dexter Morgan. AU set in the world of the Patlabor series.
1. Chapter 1

The first time they asked him to pilot the spare Labor lying unused in the hanger at Special Vehicle Section 2's headquarters, Dexter Morgan was busy at work compiling an official report on a civilian Labor dipute from two days ago; typical wonk work. Two day workers with civilian-issued Labors get into a fight over one thing or another, seconds later one knocks the other's mecha into the nearby water, which drowns him in the cockpit. No blood, no oil, nothing that would normally set Dexter's nerves on end. Which was odd for two reasons. One being that those who work in Section 2, even the analysts like him, were supposed to be used to such things in the line of duty. The second being that after dark Dexter's one thing to do was to take his best friend the Dark Passenger out for a spin as he exacted some unofficial justice on the people of Miami who deserved it. As if any suspected little quiet Dexter. Of course.

When they had asked him, he had simply frowned and said he was just a mech analyst, with only the basic training in Labors required to join the division, all to follow in his sister Deborah's footsteps. Dexter went home that day, still clueless as to why Section Captain LaGuerta would be interested in him as a pilot. If he was a pilot, he would become an official officer of the law, more than just someone who did lab reports and minor inspections every day. Not to mention LaGuerta would have complete control over what he investigated. Why would LaGuerta want to keep him closer? Did she suspect? Had Section 1's own Captain Doakes tipped her off to his own suspicions? (Both Sections, due to budget restraints enforced by the city, were cloistered together in the same building; it would be hard to go even a day without passing by Captain Doakes' office, his eyes set upon Dexter's retreating back like a laser.) The more he thought about it, the more Dexter wanted to escape into the open air of the Miami night, to get away from those thoughts and lose himself in the precision and drive that was the Dark Passenger. So he did, taking care in executing in his own style a local slum lord who had been using his young poor female tenants to his advantage before dumping their bodies from a Crabman Labor into the glades; said slum lord was now sleeping in pieces with his victims, his limbs all mixed up in the muck-filled waters.

Dexter cleaned up the scene and went home to sleep the sleep of the dead.

The next day proved a little more eventful. An hour after coming into headquarters --- bearing a sweet bounty of a dozen jelly-filled donuts, which Vince and his other mechanic cohorts grabbed with oil-stained fingers --- Dexter received a call at his desk from Deborah. As usual, her voice was aggravated and curt, as if she was more pissed at the phone itself. He often wondered if there was something about working with the detectives and pilots of Miami Patlabor Special Vehicle Division 2 (try saying that three times fast) that turned everyone into insufferable grouches over the phone.

"Lemon City Park, Northeast 58th Street. Be here in ten minutes or I'm killing you."

"And a good morning to you, Debs."

"Fuck you, Dexter. Just get here. Either you help me with this or ---- I'll let you imagine what."

He held the dead receiver in his hand, wondering idly what Deborah could want to bring to his attention before grabbing his jacket and keys, making his way out of the building while skillfully avoiding Doakes' glance. Which was odd, as it seemed the man wasn't at his desk that morning. Huh. But Deborah's doting Dexter paid it no mind as he drove to Lemon City Park in his civilian vehicle.

Lemon City Park in Little Haiti was innocent looking enough. Bright green grass and colorful playground equipment mixed with benches under plastic roofs for shade. A local construction and landscaping company had been hired by the city to do some terraforming on a large patch of land to make it into a kind of sunken garden. Only now, the shallow wide hole in the ground that they had carved out for peonies and daisies was now taken up by the broken up mangled pieces of a Labor and its pilot, a middle-aged man whose surprised-looking head sat on the open palm of a disconnected mechanical hand, almost humorous in its grotesqueness.

By the time Dexter arrived at the scene, his fellow crime techs were already covering the area, intent on finding and keeping track of every bit and piece of both robot and human. When he got close enough, he noticed something in the air --- the combined smells of oil and human blood, mingling together in the open breeze. His stomach did a flip-flop at the scent. It wasn't clean or careful, not like when devious Dexter did his deadly duty during the night. It was practically an insult to his technique.

So when he finally found Deb amid a group of Division 2 fuzz, arguing about something or other, he was put on the case. Not right away, of course --- he didn't want to seem too _eager_ to do his police duties.

Somehow, he found himself half an hour later hunkered in the cockpit of a Labor behind a man who he had thought would never willingly work with him in a thousand years, not without special coercion --- Section 1's Captain Doakes, looking pissed as can be for having to work with darling little Dexter Morgan on such an open-and-shut case. In fact, Doakes had no problem airing his grievances straight to Dexter's face, as he did when Captain LaGuerta told Dexter he'd be working with Doakes, much to the surprise of both of them as well as his sister, who had been hoping to nab the Chopper (the killer's new shoddy nickname) with his help. Ever since Dexter had started working at Section 2, his occasional insight into their most difficult cases had made him the go-to guy for all such cases --- although he imagined the only reason he had been called to this scene was a good lot of officers were overseas in Japan for the annual Labor show. Well, Dexter was always happy to help his fellow officer in the blue uniform and white mecha ---- just not so much with Captain Doakes.

Still, there he was, in a cramped little space inside the chest of a metal robot, feeling the hatred rolling off Captain Doakes in waves. Here he was, the mech analyst, studier of battle patterns and the occasional crime scene, coming in the pursuit of a suspect (they had been able to scan a careless set of fingerprints at the crime scene, and got a match a moment later --- oh, the wonders of technology).

"He'll be good for you," LaGuerta had said, practically pushing Dexter in the path of a very irritated Doakes, the big vein on his forehead throbbing like it was about to burst. Dexter imagined it was still throbbing away at a good pace, judging by how hard the man was gripping the controls with his prosthetic hands (long story), as if he was restraining himself from flat-out decking the other man.

Still, it could be worse, Dexter thought. They could have someone shooting at them. After all, for a police-issuer Labor, the thing didn't move turbo-fast like the latest models: once again, a very tight budget made for few products of technological innovations to actually fall into the police's hands. Thank god their guns were mandatory issued and up to date, or Section 1 and 2 would both be lying in ruins.

And then, of course, from behind, a Labor rose from a nearby bank of trees and began firing. What wonderful luck.

Doakes cursed and hunched forward in his seat, grabbing the controls and pulling them towards him. The cockpit shook with the vibrations of laser fire striking the Labor's armor.

"What's going on?" Dexter asked innocently, then began choking on smoke. Doakes just cursed some more and began maneuvering the Labor out of harm's path. Dexter couldn't see what was going on anymore, as thin smoke began to build and cloud his vision, He pulled his shirt collar over his nose and mouth and started to move lower to get below the smoke. From a small bit of the control panel that was visible, he could see the opposing Labor standing stationary only ten or so meters away. Must be a newbie, he thought, just getting his bearings in the Labor's controls, couldn't even move without tripping over its own feet. Yet --- why was it attacking them, now?

"Move into the water," he shouted over the sound of laser fire hitting metal panels.

"The hell I will," Doakes screamed back. He punched a button on the console, which opened up another panel of buttons. "Now shut the fuck up and sit back down already."

Dexter had to admit, the sound of Doakes screaming obscenities, his eyes red from smoke exposure, was enough to force a quick retreat to the back of the cockpit, strapping himself into the back seat to keep his body a little bit safer. He heard the sound of a lever being pulled violently, then lazily noticed how clear and blue the sky was that morning as his seat rocketed up through the now-open space above his head, a bright orange bundle of fabric shooting out and mushrooming into a parachute.

And then Dexter bumped his head against the back of his detached seat and the blue clear sky became black and thick, the fingertips of the Dark Passenger reaching out in his mind seconds before unconsciousness overtook the man's body.

t.b.c.


	2. Chapter 2

_Dexter bumped his head against the back of his detached seat and the blue clear sky became black and thick, the fingertips of the Dark Passenger reaching out into his mind seconds before unconsciousness overtook the man's body . . ._

Dexter opened his eyes, groaned at the sunlight that filtered through the trees overhead and hit his eyes dead on. He blinked away the spots, all the while checking himself to make sure nothing was broken. All clear. He was still strapped into the seat which had been jettisoned out of the Labor; one strap was biting into his shoulder, so he carefully released the harness, only to tumble harmlessly into the moss-like grass beneath him.

He gathered himself to his feet and began to assess the situation at hand. Stranded in a Floridian forest, the smell of summer and fire hanging heavily in the air, and no Captain Doakes or his Labor in sight. And here was poor unlucky Dexter, standing by himself yet not harmed, but not sure where he was. He wasn't even sure how close he was to the crime scene. Dexter took a step forward, wobbled a little, but made it. Inside his head, the Dark Passenger began to stir, uneasy, then settle in the forefront of his mind. He was in survival mode now.

So Dexter began to make his way through the clearing, leaving behind the lone Labor seat. He imagined someone would come by and junk it, either the police or someone looking to make a few bucks at the junkyard (a slowly thriving business for those who hated legal employment). A branch snapped underfoot and he winced. He tried to make his next steps a bit lighter, not wanting to attract any unwanted attention. He didn't know if his attacker had followed him, looking for some easy target pratice.

And that's when Dexter's mobile let out a loud shrill, completely destroying any chance of sneaking out of there incognito. A flock of birds flew away with a loud series of caws, annoyed by the manmade noise. With a sigh, Dexter answered his cell to the sound of his sister Deborah's loud shriek of a voice.

"WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU, YOU GOD DAMN IDIOT? DID DOAKES REALLY EJECT YOUR SEAT? WHAT THE FUCK KIND OF RODEO ARE YOU TWO PLAYING OUT THERE ---" and so forth for a couple of minutes more, Dexter holding the phone a half inch away from the phone so as to not risk permanent hearing loss.

"Calm down, dear sister, everything is under control," Dexter managed to say before Deborah launched into another full-blown screaming rant about everything was far from under control, peppered with expletives as usual. Once she was calm enough, he continued. "I don't know where I am, let alone Doakes or the Labor who attacked us." He resisted the sudden urge to say "over and out" knowing how riled up Debs was already.

"Shit. _Shit._" She sighed heavily before continuing. "Okay. For Christ's sake, stay where you are and keep your phone on. We're coming to get you, you idiot." And there it was, the familiar click of Deborah hanging up and leaving poor brother Dexter out to dry. As usual.

And, of course, he could have chosen to actually follow his sister's advice and stay put, let them track him down with the mandatory chip in his phone --- but he heard something rustle unnaturally in the bushes nearby, something larger than the usual squirrel, and Dexter knew that wasn't happening any time in this century. He pocketed his mobile and slowly moved in the direction of the sounds, which were progressively becoming louder and more frequent.

There it was; a large cluster of shrubs, quivering like something was behind it. Dexter pulled out the gun from its holster --- not something he enjoyed carrying, but it did make him look more threatening. Far more threatening than his ID, which said "mechanical analyst" in annoyingly big red font for all the world to read.He drew closer, the Dark Passenger raising up on edge and ready to take control if necessary.

Dexter pulled back the brush to reveal Captain Doakes, lying in a pile of leaves, eyes screwed closed as he groaned and clutched at his side, which was dotted in red. _Blood. _Dex's nostrils flared at the harsh copper scent.

Doakes opened his eyes and grimaced. "The fuck ---" He coughed. "What the hell? Why aren't you injured?"

Dexter shrugged. "Guess I'm lucky. Must have been born under a good sign."

As usual, Doakes' eyes narrowed in irritation. He sat up, the movement making him wince. "Get the fucking med kit from the evac seat already," he spat through gritted teeth before easing himself back onto the ground.

Hiding the cheery look that threatened to appear on his face, Dexter walked back to the clearing and the chair, which looked worse now that he wasn't sitting in it. One side of it was heavily dented; the top of the seat looked scorched. He felt around on the undented side of the chair, his palms oddly dry given the situation, and found the catch that released the compartment for the first aid kit. _Med kit_, he corrected himself mentally, rolling his eyes at the police jargon used for such simple things.

Holding the metal white box in his hand, he contemplated leaving Captain Doakes there to die. He could always claim by the time he got there, the man was already dead. (He would wipe a single false tear from his eye as he explained to LaGuerta how brave Captain Doakes had died in his arms, or something equally sickeningly sentimental). But then again, they were already tracking him via his cell phone, which he had stupidly left on. They already knew where both he and Doakes was. Put two and two together, bumbling little Dexter, you get a convinction for manslaughter, and that's no fun.

So, with a bit of a heavy heart, Dexter trudged his way back to Captain Doakes' prone form, first aid kit in hand. Even though Doakes was more trouble that he was worth, he would live long enough to see another sunset. He knelt down next to a practically growling Doakes and managed to pry the man's hand away from his side. Something was stuck in his side, causing him to bleed out slowly. Ouch. There was nothing in the kit that he could use to take the fragments out, so he started to put a gauze bandage over it to stop the bleeding and hold it until help arrived. This was all rather difficult when the patient kept mumbling cusses in his direction, as if innocent Dexter was the cause of the whole thing. Which maybe he was, in an oddly karmic sense, but that was neither here nor there.

A swift wind whipped through the area, blowing around leaves and various debris. Dexter could hear the familiar, almost welcome sound of a chopper's blades slicing through the once still Miami air, sounding not very far away from where they were. So tracking their cell phones had worked after all --- which meant he had a whole lot of Deborah screaming and LaGuerta fuming to look forward to. _Oh joy, _he thought, anticipating the reception by his superiors to be anything but a joyous one.

_Two Hours Later_

The overhead fan was doing nothing to cut away at the heated tension inside the debriefing room. LaGuerta was standing at the front of the normally crowded room, except today there was only the captains and head officers from both first and second sections --- and, of course, poor Dexter Morgan, sitting next to a rather steamed Deborah, who looked ready to choke someone to death.

So far, they had learned the following: the mystery labor who had attacked them may or may not have been their suspect; both had disappeared without a trace shortly after the body was found; Captain Doakes had been hit with shrapnel in his side and wouldn't be out of the hospital for another week. Dexter considered spending some extra time at his bedside in an attempt to look supportive, but the murderous look the man shot him before being wheeled into the operating room told him enough. This all meant that Section 1 needed a temporary Captain before it fell apart from disorganization. Funny thing was, there wasn't any kind of procedure for choosing a temporary Captain. There wasn't the budget for a temp, even for such a high-ranking position of importance.

"First things first," LaGuerta said, "As of now, this room is the center of an emergency voting procedure to choose the temporary replacement of Section 1's Captain Doakes." Her gaze swept over those before her, daring anyone to contest her decision. "Everyone will write a name on a slip of paper, fold it, and hand it to me. You all have fifteen minutes. For partiality's sake, I will not be voting except as a tie breaker." She turned her back on everyone as a gesture to begin the secret vote.

Predictably (safely, Dexter thought) he wrote Deb's name on his slip before folding and turning it in. She was probably the most capable person in the room streetwise, and that was including LaGuerta. Not to mention her piloting skills were top notch, despite the academy refusing to ackowledge them, always looking towards her other assets as reasons to not promote her.

He felt a series of glances pass over his head as he sat in his chair, and he wondered if he made the right choice. Well, of course he did, Debs was the right choice no matter what. Still, when the last man gave him a quick look before turning in his slip, Dexter had a feeling there was going to be a right coup in this very room --- and him in the middle.

LaGuerta turned round and began looking through the slips. "Shit." Two more slips. "Shit." The last one she threw over her shoulder. "Fuck. Dexter Morgan, I hereby assign you temporary captain of Section 1."

Dexter couldn't hear the sudden outburst of cheers and claps, as he was too busy blacking out.


End file.
